Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

“Good, right?” I say.

“Good? Chef, I just creamed my pants. Luckily I keep an extra pair in my locker.”

I smile harder. Maria may be only one of two women in my kitchen here at The Pearl, but she’s got the dirtiest mouth by far.

Wiping my hands, I cross my arms. “My work here is done.”

“Chef.” I look up at the sound of my manager Kip’s voice. “Our guests for the seven o’clock tasting are all here.”

“All of them?”

Kip’s lips twitch. “Yes. Including your personal guest Olivia.”

“Personal guest?” Maria cocks a brow. “You fucking this girl, chef?”

“If he isn’t, then he definitely wants to,” Kip adds, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “We haven’t had a personal guest of Eli’s visit us in a while.”

“That’s why you put oysters on the menu,” Maria says, nodding. “You want to get her in the mood, don’t you?”

I run a hand through my hair. “Keep it down, would you? And my personal life is none of y’alls’ business. But if you must know, no, I’m not fucking her. And no, I’m not tryin’ to get her in the mood. She’s new in town, and I just want to feed her the best food she’s ever had. Nothing more. Nothing less. That so hard to believe?”

Maria snorts in reply.

“The oysters speak for themselves,” Kip says. “I’ll go ahead and get everyone seated. And yes, chef, before you ask, Olivia’s going to get the best seat.”

“Best seat?” I ask.

Kip wags his eyebrows, tilting his head toward the dining room. “One where she can see you. So y’all can, like, make eyes at each other all night or whatever.”

“Eye fucking.” Maria is still nodding. “Best kind of foreplay there is.”Chapter EightOliviaI gawk shamelessly at my surroundings as Kip, the sprightly manager who immediately introduced himself when I walked into The Pearl a few minutes ago, leads us to our table.

The restaurant is take-your-breath-away gorgeous. There’s a hefty sense of place about it. You know you’re in Charleston the second you step inside. Lest you forget, there’s the exposed brick walls, antique wooden beams, and miles of roughed up leather banquettes to remind you. It’s like a 1920s speakeasy and a hipster-y gentleman’s club had an especially stylish baby.

There’s dark paint for days. Artsy brass light fixtures. An enormous bar with a mirrored wine cellar beside it.

I see Eli’s touch everywhere.

The whole vibe is so sexy it’s literally turning me on. I press my legs together, willing my body to behave itself.

The dining room is filled with a good-looking but casually dressed crowd. Every table is occupied; the bar is two or three people deep in most places. I hear the clank of ice in a cocktail shaker, followed by a distinct crack when the bartender—bearded, just like every other guy I’ve seen in this city so far—opens it and pours a drink.

It smells ridiculously good in here. Like meat roasting in a wood burning oven.

My stomach grumbles.

The noise of the crowd dims for a second, and I catch a strain of music. Daughter by Pearl Jam.

I’m not sure why this makes me smile. But it does.

We move away from the bar, and the gleaming white kitchen comes into view. A large, open window is cut into the wall between the kitchen and the dining room, allowing diners to watch the kitchen staff at work.

There, front and center, is Eli. Wearing a crisp white chef’s jacket he fills out to perfection, JACKSON embroidered in simple black letters above the breast pocket. Tattoos peeking out from underneath the sleeves. Dark hair slicked back neatly from his handsome face.

A face that is a mask of concentration as he holds a plastic bottle over a plate and gives it a quick squeeze.

My stomach does a backflip. Only instead of landing, it keeps falling.

Eli looks so handsome it hurts. Those hands and forearms and shoulders.

So different from the reedy guys in crisp collared shirts I’ve dined with in the past.

I might as well be a million miles from home. From who I am there.

I feel a pang of guilt that I’m about to enjoy what is sure to be an extraordinary meal without Ted. This is exactly the kind of thing we’d do together.

But then I remind myself that I’m not here to think about Ted. I’m here to write. To experience things that will inspire my creativity.

And I find Eli and his food all kinds of inspiring.

Kip points us to a long trestle table that runs parallel lengthwise to the kitchen. When I try to sit at the far end, he grabs me and seats me smack dab in the middle of the table instead. I’m facing the kitchen.

Facing Eli. Head on. Ten feet—probably less—the only thing separating us.

As if he knows I’m staring at him, Eli looks up. He smiles at me. Winks.